Page 54 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
The thug opens another drawer. Pages turn.
We stand in the dark. My arm around her ribs. Her hand in mine. The cold pressing in from every surface that isn’t her, and the warmth from every surface that is.
My mouth against her hair and her other hand against my heart. And my stupid heart is betraying me in the steady, terrified drumbeat of a man fighting feelings for the worst possible person in the worst possible circumstances at the worst possible time.
Coach’s daughter, I think.
I don’t care, I think.
You need to care, I think.
I know. And I don’t.
The thug turns another page. The building groans against the wind and cold, voicing protest against the mountains of snow piling up outside.
And we wait.
Ten
Everly
I’m holding on by a thread, and the only thing that’s keeping me from falling apart right now is the steady beat of Beckett Benson’s heart beneath my palm.
Joke’s on you, Margot. You wanted me to stop writing from behind the glass.
Consider the glass shattered.
His arm is around my waist, curved around the small of my back. His hand is on my hip. His mouth is against my hair. These are spatial facts. Blocking, we call it in writing. But his heart—that sure, strong beat in his chest—my head is hearing all sorts of things from that heartbeat.
It’s okay.
You’re okay.
We’re okay.
I want to believe him. So I focus on that heartbeat.
Minutes pass—or maybe it’s hours. I can’t tell.
Then, mercifully, a shout echoes from down the hallway. “Got something! East side!”
Footsteps cross the office fast, chair scraping, papers fluttering. The door bangs. Footsteps recede.
Beckett’s arm tightens once—the signal—then releases. The air where his body was is immediately, offensively cold. He gives the closet door a push.
“Now,” he breathes. “Go.”
I’m out of the closet and through the office in a heartbeat. Into the corridor. Not toward the Staff Only door—the thugs went that direction. Toward the Zamboni bay.
The bay is cavernous—high ceiling, concrete floor, the air thick with chemical ice treatment and diesel. A forklift sits in the far corner of the room, the Zamboni sits in the center like a sleeping beast, squat and yellow and absurdly cheerful. I keep running, but Beckett slows, something calculating in his gaze. He jogs to a stop, eyes working over the massive machine.
“Beckett, what are you doing?” I ask, halfway across the room.
He runs a hand over the machine, taps the side. It thuds, heavy and full. “How much water do you think’s in here?”
I frown. E.J. Hartley has never featured a Zamboni in her books—but Sutton Blake has. So I know exactly how much water is in that Zamboni. (I’m great fun at cocktail parties. I know a ridiculous plethora of useless facts.) “About a hundred and fifty gallons if they filled it before the event today. Why?”
His gaze falls on me with a smile. “I’ve got an idea to buy us some time so we can find Cole before they do.”
